


No Warning

by ChiefDoctor



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Post-Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-27
Updated: 2019-06-27
Packaged: 2020-05-20 12:50:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19377064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChiefDoctor/pseuds/ChiefDoctor
Summary: Molly is not involved with helping Sherlock fake his suicide.This is for the sherlollymonthy prompt by @mollyhooopers





	No Warning

It came with no warning, not preparation.  Molly was in the morgue closing up Mr. Sanders, when one of the interns burst in with the news.  “Doctor Hooper, have you heard?”

Interns were always so eager to share the latest gossip.  She found it mildly amusing, as the morgue was not usually the hubbub of the rumor mill.  Distracted by her suturing, she prompted trying to sound bored, it’s not good to encourage them. “What’s happen now?”

“That man, he jumped off the roof!”  The intern came closer as he spoke but keeping a respectful distance from her patient.

She stopped and looked up at him.  “Someone jumped off the roof?”  She asked incredulously.

“Yeah, that bloke that’s always in here acting like he owns the place.”

“What?”  Her mind started to race.  Her first thought went to Sherlock, but she immediately dismissed it.  ‘He’d never take his life.’

Oblivious to her distress, he continued.  “Yeah, he took a swan dive off the roof.  He made quite the splat on the sidewalk.”  She braced herself against the slab, desperately trying to convince herself that he couldn’t be talking about Sherlock.

Mustering her strength, her eyes pierced her intern’s.  “Who?”  She managed to get out without giving away how distressed this was making her.

“You know that guy with the coat, always mucking about in here, comes in with the DI and the short guy.”  He says carelessly, without any notice whatsoever as to how this is affecting his superior.

“Sherlock.”  She barely has enough air to get it out.

“Yeah, that’s his name.  Sherlock Holmes.  I guess he couldn’t handle it after all his lies came out in the papers.”  The intern keeps prattling on.

Her entire focus is on the sutures crossing Mr. Sanders’ chest, holding the tears back with her last shred of hope.  “Dead?”  She managed to choke out.

“Yeah, well I can’t imagine he’d survive from that distance.  They took him to A & E.”

Hope, that is what she grasped on to.  She knew it was foolish but the alternative, that Sherlock was really dead was unthinkable.  With a deep breath, she pushed herself into work mode so that she could finish Mr. Sanders.  “Andrew, I’m nearly finished here.  Then you can put him in the drawer and clean up.”

“Anton.”

“What?”  She looked at him confused.

“My name is Anton, not Andrew.”

“Oh, of course, sorry.”  Tying off her last suture, she stepped away from her patient.  Tossing the gloves into biohazard container she bolted for the door.  Her feet were carrying her to A & E, but somewhere in her heart she already knew; she had lost him.  She began to mentally berate herself that you can’t have lost something you never had, when she heard the squeak of wheels coming down the hall.

Frozen in place, there was nothing she could do when they crashed through the morgue doors and stopped right in front of her.  “Hey there doc.  Got a fresh one for ya.  This one couldn’t wait to get here, jumped off the roof.”  She felt her head begin to spin.  Hesitantly, she pulled back the sheet to reveal his bloodied pale face. 

~~*****~~

That’s the last thing she remembers until she woke up in Stamford’s office, lying on his sofa

With blurry vision, she looks around and soon sees Mike’s concerned face near hers.  “Hey there Molly, how are you feeling?”

She pushes to sit up even though the room is still a little spinny.  “Mike, what the hell happened?”

“Well, it appears you fainted.  How do you feel now?”  She couldn’t help but notice he was taking her pulse.

She rested her head against her hand, trying to stop the room from doing its acrobats.  “The room won’t stop moving.”  She huffs.

Quickly, he hands her a glass of water.  “Here, perhaps this will help.”

She takes a few sips trying to remember what she was doing when she passed out.  She remembers doing Mr. Sanders autopsy, but she’s never reacted to an autopsy before.  Not even in med school, when her fellow students were tossing their lunches had she physically reacted.  As she took a few more sips, she remembers Andrew, no Anton coming in.  She smirks at herself.  ‘God, getting more like Sherlock every ……’ but she never finished that thought, as thinking his name brought it all back to her.

“Oh god!”  She shrieked doubling over.

Mike had grabbed the glass just as she let it go.  “Molly, it’s going to be alright.”  He tried to sooth her, but it didn’t seem to be taking.

Pulling herself upright, she looked him in the eye.  “Then he’s not dead?”  She bravely asked.  Mike looked at the ground and shook his head.  Silently, she began to cry.  She’s not sure how much time passed as she let her grief out, but Mike sat with her, holding her hand throughout.  Finally, she said, “I think I’m ready to go see him now.”

Mike’s eyes scrunched up in confusion.  “See him?”

“Yes, I know I can’t do the autopsy Mike, but I’d like to say my good-byes.”

The look he gave her reminded her of her father, when he was trying to give her distressing news.  She braced herself for it.  “Molly, he’s not here.”

“What?”  She gasped.

“Um, Mycroft.  Mycroft took him….somewhere.”  As Mike was telling her, he seemed to realize he had no idea where Mycroft took his body.”

“Mycroft?  He’s next of kin but he can’t just take a body.  Can he?”  Her eyes implored.

“Molly, you know as well as I do that Mycroft is some kind of government big-wig with power we’ll never understand.  It seems he can do whatever he wants.”  He nodded his head knowing that it was out of his hands.

“So, he’s just gone.”  She hiccupped.

“Molly, I know you two were close.  He could be a right pain in my arse, but you made him tolerable.  Somehow you were able to temper him, into almost a human being.”  She choked at his words.  “Molly, I want you to take the rest of the day off.  In fact, make it the rest of the week.”  She started to shake her head no when he continued.  “Molly, you need time to grieve and I’m sure John and his other friends will need you as well.”

It was a sneaky trick, appealing to her need to help others but she let it go.  At this moment, she wasn’t sure how she was going to cope with Sherlock’s loss, and it was probably best to do it away from Bart’s.  “Thank you, Mike.  I think you might be right.  I’ll accept your offer.”

“Good.  That’s good.”  He seemed relieved.

“I’ll go get my things from my locker.”  She stands, taking a moment until her feet feel steady on the floor, then heads for the door.  “Oh!”  She remembers.  “Mr. Sanders?”

“Already taken care of.  Anton followed your instructions.”  He reassured.

She nodded.  “Good, that’s good.”  Before she passed through his door.

~~*****~~

Halfway down the hallway on her way to the locker room, she spotted Greg.  She wasn’t sure if she had the strength to talk to anyone right now, but she also knew she wouldn’t have a choice.  She tried to put on a brave face, but as soon as he stopped in front of her, she crumbled into his embrace.

After too many tears, they parted.  She wasn’t surprised to see the tears on Greg’s face as well.  She knew he cared about Sherlock.  No one could have put up with him as long as they did, if they didn’t see a bit of who he really was underneath. 

He offered to give her a ride home, and she didn’t have the strength to protest.  After she gathered her things, they made the silent drive to her flat.  “Would you like to come in for some tea?”  She offered not really expecting him to take her up on it.

After a long moment, he asked, “You got anything stronger?”

She nodded.

“Ok.”

Greg had never been to her flat before and it seemed odd to have him there now.  But her British manners couldn’t stop her from offering, so here they were.  She directed him to the lounge, while she headed for the kitchen.  She was sure there was a bottle of whiskey in there somewhere, from when her cousin Ethan had been in town.

Having located it, she brought it with two glasses into the lounge.  The image of Greg mindlessly petting Toby brought to mind the many times Sherlock had sat on that sofa doing the same thing.  She choked it back because the last thing she wanted the detective inspector to know is how much time Sherlock actually spent at her place.

Silently, she poured them both half glasses.  He raised his to her, indicating a toast.  “To Sherlock.”  He said.

“To Sherlock.”  She agreed before taking a large drink.

Looking over at Greg, he seemed lost and tired.  “Greg, are you ok?”

His grieving eyes spoke volumes.   “I can’t believe he did that.  It’s so not like him to just give up.  I mean, when have you ever know him to let anything go, Molly?”

She too was having a difficult time believing Sherlock committed suicide.  He didn’t seem the type.  “I know.  I can’t believe it either, Greg.  He didn’t seem to be the kind of person who cared what other people thought.”  She pondered as she slid the glass back and forth across her lips.

“He didn’t!  Anybody gave him gruff, and he’d just deduce them to within an inch of their life.”

She choked, laughed knowing it was true.  “Been there.”

“Done that.”  He finished.

When his glass was empty, he thanked her for the drink and headed out.  After she closed the door, she stood staring at that place on the sofa, not remembering Greg sitting there, but Sherlock.  There were more times than she could count that she would come home from work or a date to find him sitting or laying on her sofa, completely absorbed in his mind palace.  She didn’t understand why he couldn’t do that at his own place, but she said little about it.

Well, at first, she said a lot.  The first time she came home, tired from work to find the strange man spread across her sofa like he owned the place she said quite a bit on the subject. 

It had been probably six months after John had moved in that she opened her door to find that her flat was already occupied by a certain consulting detective.  “What the hell, Sherlock?  What are you doing in my flat?  How did you get into my flat?”  She was looking around for his point of entry.

But of course, his arrogant self, waved off her concern.  “It was not difficult Molly.  Your locks are quite easy to pick.  Honestly, you should look into an upgrade.  They were child’s play.”

With her arms crossed over her chest, she tried to give him her hardest look, the one that usually had interns quivering in their shoes.  “And _why_ are you in my flat?”  She pressed.

“Needed to think.”  He retorted.

That made her really angry.  She stomped up beside where he was lying on her sofa.  “Well, go think at your own flat.  I have plans for tonight.”

“Nope.”  He said in that annoying, clipped way that makes you want to slap him.

“Yes!”  She countered.

Taking about ten seconds to look her over, he stated.  “Molly the only plans you have for tonight involve microwaving a ready-made meal, a glass of wine, and mindless telly.  Those are hardly _plans_.”

For once she wasn’t going to let Sherlock win, after all this was her flat, not his.  “And as you can see, I need my sofa for those _plans_.”  Her tone rigid, unrelenting.

Opening one eye to take in her fuming stance, he sits up.  She backs away so he can get off the sofa.  “Tedious!”  He huffs, as he gets off the sofa, and stomps to her bedroom, locking the door.

Sinking to the sofa, she rehashes what just went down, then sighs, “Well, that went well.”

~~*****~~

After another whiskey, she put the bottle away, afraid she’d get lost in it and that was not a road she was willing to travel.  Too many in her family took their sorrows out with a bottle.  She went to her room to change from her work clothes when she saw it on her nightstand.  Next to the bed, propped up against the lamp was an envelope.  With shaking hands, she reached for it, recognizing that messy scrawl as that of Sherlock’s.  She practically fell on the edge of the bed, staring at the envelope that just said ‘Molly’.

He wrote to her….her.  At first, it made her happy to think he cared enough but then remembering he was gone, the tears began anew.  Pressing the envelope to her chest, she laid down letting the tears and sorrow overtake her.  She’d held it together as best she could in front of Mike and Greg, but there wasn’t anyone around to be brave for and frankly she didn’t have any fight left in her.  She’s not sure how long she cried, but apparently enough to wear her out. 

When she woke, it was dark outside.  Rising she realized that she was still clutching his letter.  Gently she laid it on her nightstand and went to her ensuite.  After washing her face, she came back sitting on the bed unable to stop staring at the letter.  She wanted so desperately to read it, but she also knew that these were the last words she’d ever hear from him, so she hesitated.

Cautiously, she reached for it, her fingertips tracing over the letters of her name wondering what he was thinking when he wrote it.  Carefully, she opens the envelope and removes the one page of sturdy parchment within.

Her hands are shaking, as she begins to read.

 

_Dear Molly,_

_I’m sure by now that you know what I have done and I’m sure you are quite cross with me.  Please don’t be.  It had to be done.  There was no other way._

_Before I move on, I want you to know how important you are to me.  You saw me when others didn’t, but you never wavered in your support for me, and dare I say love.  I knew of your feelings for me, but I could not return them. I’m a high functioning sociopath.  I would have been no good for you._

_I hope you will be very happy Molly Hooper.  You do count and I have always trusted you._

_Forever yours,_

_Sherlock_

 

Slowly she closes the paper, trying to process his words.  ‘Did he really care for me?’  She tries not to let herself hope, especially when it matters not since he is gone.  Mechanically, she pushes the paper back into the envelope, but it seems to be stuck on something.  Opening it further, she sees something shiny within.  Turning it over, the contents falls into her palm.  It is a small silver charm.  Looking at it closer, she believes it’s an ankh.  She remembers seeing it at the British Museum.  Her and Sherlock had been there on a case, after hours once.  She’d always been fascinated with Ancient Egypt and their customs.  While they had waited for their thief to arrive, they availed themselves with their own private showing of the Egyptian collection.  If she remembers correctly, the Ancient Egyptians often buried this with their pharaohs to revive him in the afterlife.

She continues to stare at it, wondering why Sherlock has given this to her.  In the end, it doesn’t matter why he gave this to her, only that he did.  Rising she goes to her jewelry box to find a silver necklace.  Finding the chain she wants, she removes the current charm and places the ankh on it.  While looking in the mirror, she watches as she places it around her neck, the Egyptian symbol shining back at her.  Reverently she traces over it, as she thinks of the man who gave it to her.

~~*****~~

They all managed to get through the funeral and memorial.  Mycroft was being insufferable as usual, John was a broken man, and Mrs. Hudson couldn’t stop the tears.  For a man, who acted like he didn’t give a damn about others; he’d left a gaping hole in their lives and they weren’t quite sure how they were going to move on without him.

But time does move on.  For over a year, Greg had to defend his using Sherlock on his cases.  Despite a thorough investigation, they could find no mistakes in the evidence and no cases were overturned.  Finally, he was allowed off desk duty and allowed to head investigations again. 

John had pulled away from everyone associated with Sherlock.  He’d moved out of Baker Street shortly after the funeral and was working full time at a clinic.  There were rumors that he was getting serious with a woman, but no one was sure since he let their calls go to voicemail.

Mrs. Hudson tried to continue on, pretending to be cheery, but her heart just wasn’t in it.  Sherlock was the closest she’d had to a son.  Despite how annoying he could be they shared a special bond.  So much so, she hadn’t rented out his rooms, nor emptied his flat. 

Molly had done her best to move on.  With so much time on her hands not helping Sherlock, she dove back into her research.  At first, it was a way to hide from her grief, because she couldn’t spend every night crying over a man who wasn’t even hers.  But soon, it became a way to honor him, as well as remind herself that she was quite capable on her own.  Afterall, she had been the youngest pathologist in the history of Bart’s, and she had achieved that long before knowing Sherlock Holmes.

~~*****~~

On the second anniversary of Sherlock’s death, they had gathered at Baker Street.  It was one of the few times that John had come when Mrs. Hudson summoned him.  They all did, sitting around the parlor of 221B, reminiscing, telling stories.  John seemed less angry this time.  He soon revealed that he and his lady friend, Mary, were getting quite serious.  Each of them shared how they were moving on, despite the empty spot in their lives.

It was about three weeks passed the second anniversary.  Molly was home cuddling on the sofa with Toby, watching some inane rom-com on the telly.  It was a Friday night, and she was enjoying a glass of wine and letting the stress of the week go.  The knock on her door startled her, as she didn’t get many visitors.  Looking at the clock, she could see if was already after 10.  Cautiously she went to the door and looked through the keyhole.  Immediately, she shrieked and moved away from the door.  ‘It couldn’t be. He was dead.’

Her heart was pounding out of her chest as she tried to process what she thought she had seen.  While trying to fortify herself to take another look, she heard the lock click.  Without thinking, she grabbed her dad’s walking stick that sat near the door, brandishing it above her head.  Nothing could have prepared her for Sherlock Holmes walking into her flat, with his high cheekbones, and curly locks, giving her the brightest smile.  Gasping, she brought her hand to her mouth, trying to process what she was seeing. 

Slowly he came closer.  Gently he removed the walking stick from her hand and placed it on the table next to them.  “Molly.”  He finally said.

She gasped again, shuffling backwards, not comprehending.  “Molly?” 

“No …dead, can’t be here.  Can’t… oh god!”  She sputtered as she moved further away from him.

“No Molly, not dead.”  He stated calmly as he removed his Belstaff and placed it over the nearest chair.

She sputtered further, “But….I saw you.  You were dead.  We buried you.”  He continued slowly getting closer until he was able to touch her cheek with his palm.  This seemed to break her, and she fell into his arms crying profusely into his chest.

He held her tighter than he’d ever remembered holding anyone.  He could have convinced his old self that it was so she did not fall apart as she was crying so hard.  But he knew better, and he would not lie to her, or himself any longer.

He pulled her scent into his lungs, as his lips grazed her temple with a light kiss.   After what seemed like an eternity but not long enough, she pulled back to look him in the face.  Her lips quivered, as her fingers came up to touch his cheek.  ‘Oh god, he is real.’  “Sherlock?”  She dared, so afraid the wrong thing would tear this fantasy from her.

He brought his hand to lay over hers, slowly wrapping his digits around her hand.  “Molly.”  His deep baritone, made her shiver.

“How?  What?  Why?”  She seemed to not know which question to answer first, so she asked them all.

He pulled back, giving her a smile.  “I promise to tell you everything but first.”  Cupping her cheek, he tilted her towards him and came closer.  Nothing could have prepared her for the feel of his lips pressing against hers, taking all of her air, causing her brain to shut down, as all she could do was feel him kissing her.  When they finally needed air, he broke their kiss, and rested his forehead against hers.  “Molly.”  He breathed out like a promise.

Confused, her cheeks wet with tears, she said, “I don’t understand Sherlock.”  He pulled back to look at her.  “I don’t understand.”

He then saw it shining in the muted light, the ankh that he had left her, worn around her neck.  “I see you found it.”  His fingers trace over it, igniting her skin below it.

“Yes, it was with your letter.   _Your goodbye letter_.”  She emphasizes.

“No, not goodbye.”  He continues to trace her skin around the ankh.  “I was giving you a message, Molly.”

Shaking her head at him, she exclaims, “What message Sherlock?”  She holds the ankh up for him to see.  “I thought this meant you were going into the afterlife.”

His smile drops.  “No Molly.  That is not what it symbolizes.”

“Yes, that is why the ancient Egyptians gave it to their pharaohs as they were going into the afterlife.”  She protests.

“While it is true that they often buried pharaohs with an ankh, it does not represent the afterlife.  The  **ankh**  is an ancient Egyptian hieroglyphic symbol that was most commonly used in writing and in art to represent the word for "life" and, by extension, as a symbol of life itself.”  When she still looks confused, he continues.  “I gave it to you so that you would know I chose life, Molly.  That I wasn’t dead.”

“Oh.”

“Oh.”

“So not a ghost then?”

He frowns at her.  “Molly, don’t make jokes.”  Then gives her a big smile before pulling her into his arms again.

“..and ..the hugging?  ..and ..and kissing?”  She stutters but has to ask because she’s so confused right now.  The man she thought was dead, was alive.  The man she thought didn’t care about her was holding her and kissing her.  I must have nodded off.  This has to be a dream.  It’s the only rationale explanation to this insanity.

He pulled back just enough so she could see his smile.  “Molly, I have missed you.”  He pulls her closer to his chest again.  “I knew when I left, I was going to miss London.  I knew I would miss John, Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, and you.”  He lets his fingers comb through the silky strands of her hair as he talks.  “I knew I’d miss you.  I just didn’t expect that I would ache for you.”  He hears her gasp against his chest.  “Yes, it was a shock to me as well.  I knew my feelings were different for you than they were for John, or anyone else but I didn’t understand why.”  He lets his lips press against her temple as he continues.  “I found you everywhere I went.  Some little thing would remind me of you.  At night, in the dark, I would reach out for you.”  Gently, he pulls away so that his hands can cup her face.  “Molly, in my absence, I have learned something about myself I never thought was possible.”

“What Sherlock?  What did you learn?”

His lips broke into a smile, the one that made the skin around his eyes crinkle, and his eyes sparkle; causing her knees go wobbly.  “I learned that I don’t want to be without you, Molly Hooper.”  He hesitated a moment before continuing.  “I learned that I am in love with you.”  And without warning, he crashed his lips into hers, holding her as he had dreamt of for the past two years; and she let him.

 

~~*****~~

**The End**

**Author's Note:**

> This is a reminder that I don't own the characters of Sherlock but merely borrow them from time to time. No entitlements are made from this fic.  
> Although, the author would love kudos and lovely comments to feed her writing soul.


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